Page 58 of Silent Road

Just like death.

Wells reached into his jacket, his fingers brushing the knife handle.He hadn't planned to kill Mark immediately.The shot would be better if there was still life in his eyes when Wells posed him.That moment of transition—when performance gave way to pure truth—that's what he needed to capture.

The facility groaned around him, ice expanding in its bones.Ahead, barely audible over the wind, came the sound of ragged breathing.

Wells moved forward, anticipation building.Soon, he would help Mark Davidson achieve something he'd never managed in life—a moment of perfect authenticity.

Something scuffed against the floor, off to Wells' left.He smiled.Mark had backed himself into a corner—one of the old offices where researchers had once monitored their gauges and instruments.Wells could hear him fumbling in the darkness, searching for another way out.But there was nowhere left to go.

Wells stepped into the doorway, blocking the exit."You know," he said softly, "most people run toward the entrance, not away from it."

A sharp intake of breath, then the scrape of something being knocked over.Mark's voice came from the darkness: "Stay back."

"Or what?"Wells moved forward, each step measured."You'll film me?Share me with your followers?"

The lighter sparked again, illuminating Mark's face.Blood had dried on his temple where Wells had struck him earlier.His eyes darted around the office, desperate.

Mark's voice cracked as he spoke."Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're a fake.Everything about you is staged, manufactured."Wells took another step."But don't worry.I'm going to help you create something real."

Mark lunged suddenly, swinging what looked like a piece of broken chair.Wells sidestepped easily—he'd photographed enough predator-prey interactions to anticipate desperate moves like this.

The knife found Mark's side, not deep enough to kill but enough to weaken him further.Mark stumbled, gasping.The makeshift weapon clattered to the floor.

"That's better," Wells said."Pain brings authenticity."

He grabbed Mark's jacket before he could fall, keeping him upright.The storm's intensity had increased—he could hear it howling through the facility's broken windows.He needed to work quickly now.

"I have the perfect spot picked out," Wells said, already envisioning the shot."The central chamber, where the moonlight cuts through those high windows.The snow will provide excellent contrast."

"Please," Mark whispered."I have family..."

"Everyone has family.That's not what makes you special."Wells began dragging him toward the door."What makes you special is this moment—when all your carefully constructed facades fall away."

Mark struggled weakly, but the blood loss and cold had done their work.Wells pulled him into the corridor, heading for the central chamber.Already, his mind was composing the shot—Mark posed against the curved wall, snow swirling through broken windows, that perfect moment when pretense gave way to truth.

But something felt wrong.The wind's sound had changed, carrying new echoes.Wells paused, listening.

There—distant voices.Someone else had entered the facility.

Anger flared in his chest.More interference, more artificial elements intruding on his work.First the storm threatening his lighting, now this.

He tightened his grip on Mark.He could still salvage this.The central chamber had multiple exits—he could find another angle, another moment.The newcomers' presence might even add urgency to Mark's expression, making it more authentic.

"Looks like we'll have company," he whispered to his semiconscious subject."Better make this shot count."

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

The research facility's entrance gaped like a wound in the mountainside, its metal door hanging askew.Snow had already begun to drift across the threshold, erasing their footprints almost as quickly as they made them.

"Someone's been here recently," Tommy observed, running his gloved hand along fresh scratch marks on the door frame.

Sheila nodded, unholstering her weapon.The beam of her flashlight revealed a ransacked security station—filing cabinets and furniture piled haphazardly, as if someone had tried to barricade the entrance, then been forced to break through.

"Mark must have come this way," she said softly."And given the fact that the door was open, I'm guessing his attacker did, too."

Tommy drew his own weapon but remained oddly quiet, without sharing any of his usual eager commentary.Their argument in the snow seemed to have affected him more deeply than she'd expected.Or maybe something else was bothering him.

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